Keep On Tracking!

election special

 

nude offence

ministers

sporting sore

bums

 

could be worse

President

Boomerang’s

back

 

moonlighting

seniors with

genial

warts

 

Mars Attack

victims rare

Civil War

cards

 

yep it’s show

one & all

how the West

charts

 

*

 

a peroration

 

I’ve already milked the Mosleys once*, but since Mr Michael was apparently no relation to Oswald & Sons, Max or Nick, so - for the love of Pete - here we go again...

The dry Hellenic hills like those of Western Türkiye, even when in sight & sound of the super marine, are downwrite merciless. Mocking breezes blow across their jutting stones and spiky shrubs. Beads of blood sprout from the shins & ankles, while sweat pours down the faces of trekkers as the scorched air extracts every trace of liquid from the quick, the slow, and even the dead. Rays of a nuclear sun penetrate to the bedrock, whilst above the blueblack heavens rage in awesome, silent fury. Put another way, these are not zones meant for casual visitation, least of all by the midday English, with or without their maddening dogs.

City folks who yearn for the ascetic independence of island life – from Ynys Môn to Mytilene, in my case – do so with such desert scopes always wire brushing ankles & toes or salt clawing at the shoulders. From the semi-barren sandhills of Niwbrwch Warren to the crags of South Stack, from the steep, emaciated slopes of Datça to the desertified forest of Sigri – impossible looking hardships challenge each lonesome, passing soul. The lure of walking, scrambling and climbing from one feat-defying feature to the next is an ever present danger. It is an inner treasure hunt, the goal to arrive at some welcome Ne’er-be-Ne’er land, torn & weary but somehow enhanced and therefore more intact. One rewarding return to civilisation might be the taste of a simple draught of cool water; another an ice-cold gasp of beer. More enduring will be the thud of achievement, the memory of heart-stopping moments, when even the invisible crickets desist, transfixed in the silent roar of existence.

I don’t know if Michael Mosley was a frequenter of such landscapes. I do know he was a explorer in his own mind & body, an experiencer of the limits. Indeed, he carved a whole career from them, and though one might comment nice work if you can get it, “Good for him!” is mine. On an otherwise unremarkable day he began, umbrella in hand, an impromptu task - one that ought to have lasted an hour or less, taking the path to a holiday settlement normally reached only by sea. Perhaps he saw himself arriving there from no-man’s land, sweaty & somewhat scratched but hardly the worse for wear, and being recognised (or not) offered a seat in the shade and politely accepting (or declining) the aforementioned refreshment (as against his religion, hic). Somehow, it appears, he lost his way, following a convoluted route that took much longer than it should. Until, eventually, within hailing distance of scoring seaside gold, his heart gave out. He stumbled, fell and died - I fear - a rather horrible death, painful and with no one & nothing to comfort him, apart from a faith, which I hope for his sake did not desert him at the end.

And there the poor man’s body lay desiccating for four days before being spotted – not on the ground by any of the search parties sent out, but - by a photographer examining a long distance shot taken from the sea. His own children in vain had searched within 150 metres of the very rocks where he came a cropper. I guess this was as much because of the blistering heat hampering their efforts as much as by the difficulty of the spot the blighter had got himself into. Actually, looking at the last CCTV images taken of him as he strutted out of the village, huddled under an umbrella, I don’t doubt he missed his path. You should have all your wits – and watts - about you in terrain and heat like that. An umbrella, which blinkers you from your bearings, can do more harm than good - which seems to have been the case here.

So, what do we make of his passing? He who had done so much to warn us of life’s complications: over-eating, inaction, obsession - to iterate but a few. ‘Just one thing, ’ he would say, when offering some new insight on fitness or health. Should his fate deter us from taking any of that advice? ‘Physician, heal thyself!’ the sceptic will snort. But who knows what drove him on that scorching day. Some private demon, perhaps? The Greek authorities say he died of natural causes, whatever that means. I wouldn’t know. But please let us not be put off the challenge. I guess most cats have at least nine lives. It doesn’t matter what did for him at that untimely age, we should still go where he led. He was a very gallant man, whose calm reassuring voice many will miss. And, as someone wrote on his remembrance page, who else is there to guide us through the seventies and eighties of this life?

*The character (Sir) Freddie Earlham, who features in the final part of “My Heart Forgets to Beat”, was inspired by Nicholas Mosley’s portrait of his father in “Rules of the Game”.

 

 *

 

great brutish bog off

 

shame about The Bogeymen

rummage under armour straw

sly their pilot went to plan

series a bore

 

dialogue was fun in parts

some location shots went well

but like Marilyn in warts

bound to appal

 

can’t ignore that je’n’sais quoi

smell of soap & facial squeeze

quote unquote a well worn path

cut to the cheese

 

anyone who votes for them

gets to take Marine LePenn

home for gentlemen prefer

dyed over fair

 

c’est la girl they would of said

Oban Putin Trump Farage

dodgy grammar in the end

turning the page

 

 

shallow truths

 

fe’ral judge in document

case has ruled themself a joint

stick it up your jumper ban

that’s how it works

 

Mr President your right

hand should never know what’s left

wave & smile we’re passing thru

Washington State

 

all the way to Florida

keep a beedy eye out for

somewhere on this road now turn

round one more shot

 

gee it’s hot I mean to say

she but pronouns tend to lie

down just when you need their Please

Please me or Help

 

oh another thing I tried

opening the window but

quite a lot of paperwork

blew the hell out

 

 

 

anthem for doomed oldsters

 

raise this Turkish coffee cup

scoop of blood & swear by messed

opportunities you know

nothing is good

 

no religion was at fault

burned the tie they gave your dad

damp the book of matches you

found in the vault

 

sneak along the corridor

hold your tongue & feel the power

even some who’ve come through war

fall at this hour

 

tell the king the rotten truth

leaving nothing out but in

stead of how’s-your-fathers let

Cate out the bag

 

then retire without a word

go & live your final years

plucking ticks from donkeys’ ears

that’s how absurd

Don't Not!